


curved air

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: They didn’t do it every single night on tour. Just a lot of nights. Peter wasn’t even sure when it had started—it had to have been early on, when they were still sharing rooms. But at some point, years ago, he and Ace and Paul had started showering together after the show.
Relationships: Peter Criss/Ace Frehley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	curved air

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas present for planet_neun on tumblr. My apologies for being a day late! I love you lots.

It had been a brilliant show. 

Even now, a month into the reunion tour, Peter couldn’t quite believe how brilliant. How invigorating. How many people. The kids—kids younger than Jennilee, out there on their dads’ shoulders, wearing their makeup. The college girls, their hair and clothes so different from all those years prior, but their wants the same as ever—he wasn’t as interested in them as he used to be, but it was still a thrill just to see them there. Five or six of them had tossed bras up at the stage, and Gene and Paul had collected them like trophies, gleefully hooking them to their mic stands during the show. Like they’d never seen them before, when Peter knew they had. Gene had even brought the bra with the biggest cups backstage, half-jokingly telling a roadie to find the owner, like a demented version of Cinderella’s glass slipper.

The want was more exciting than the money. Seeing so many peoples’ faces lighting up. No one had wanted to see him in so long. He remembered the clubs and bars he’d been reduced to. Even when he’d been on tour with Ace last year, the crowds were nothing, less than nothing, in comparison. Almost no one had asked for his autograph in years, outside of the convention circuit, and now—

It was surreal. A second shot. He wouldn’t waste it. He couldn’t.

The one thing he’d been scared would hold him back wasn’t yet. The pain in his arms hadn’t been bad enough to affect his performances. He was trying, desperately, to prevent it however he could. He’d started dipping his arms in big bowls of ice immediately after getting off the stage. He had all sorts of wraps, too. None of the cortisone injections like he’d had in the seventies. The idea was, these days, to try to treat the pain and stiffness as naturally as possible, and he hoped to limit himself to over-the-counter anti-inflammatories, if he had to take anything. He’d be really careful.

His arms were still a bit pink from the ice. He rubbed at them absently, rolling up the sleeves of his bathrobe. He hadn’t stripped out of the costume and paint yet, the sweat making both stick to him like a second skin. He was waiting. Next to him, leaning against the wall and nursing a can of what Peter hoped was actually Pepsi, Ace was, too.

“Where’s Paul?” Ace asked. Peter had only seen him backstage briefly after the show. Gene was gone, too, but that was expected; he’d always head straight back to the hotel to bang groupies. He’d never been part of their post-concert routine. “Isn’t he hanging around?”

“I thought I saw him talking to Pam earlier.”

“That’s been at least fifteen minutes.” Ace hesitated, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. Peter watched him blink at the black lipstick smear left on his skin, then laugh quietly, almost to himself. “She didn’t look too thrilled.”

That was an understatement. Paul’s wife had looked mildly humiliated after every concert so far.

“He’s probably cheating on her.”

“Fuck, he’s been cheating on her. But now he’s got lots better pickings than he used to.” Ace put his finger to his lips again, smudging away the lipstick at the cener. “’S different.”

“Cheating’s cheating.”

“Nah, man, I mean… he’s different, we’re different.” Ace took a swallow of his drink. Peter stepped up closer, trying to get a whiff of what was in the can without being obvious about it. Ace needed to knock it off. For Monique’s sake if not for his own. Keep his addictions more than an arm’s length away. Pete had done it more than ten years ago now. But Ace just seemed to keep on and keep on. It felt worse now than it used to, now that he saw him every day. It was like watching a man drown in an inch of water. “It’s not just the crowds. The show makes us different.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think Paulie’d be smacking his own ass onstage if he didn’t have the paint on?” Ace didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Nah. Pam’s not, y’know, used to that side of him.”

“The only side I see of him onstage is his ass. He’s not turning around like he used to.”

“Aw, Petey. Lemme make it up to you.”

Ace set the drink down on the table. Peter grabbed it, taking a sip, relieved when the only thing he tasted was Pepsi. Ace’s expression was unreadable at first, before the right side of his mouth raised up just slightly in a smile.

“I ain’t doing so bad. I promise. You wanna wait on him?”

It took a second before Peter realized what Ace meant. He hesitated, uncertain. If Paul and Pam were really having a row, Paul wouldn’t be back, ritual be damned. Part of him wanted to wait despite that. The rest of him wanted to step out of his sweaty spandex as soon as possible.

“Let’s just go. Any longer and this shit’ll be glued to my skin.”

“Wouldn’t be that bad a look,” Ace said, and clapped an arm around his shoulder. “C’mon.”

\--

They didn’t do it every single night on tour. Just a lot of nights. Peter wasn’t even sure when it had started—it had to have been early on, when they were still sharing rooms. But at some point, years ago, he and Ace and Paul had started showering together after the show.

It would get pretty stupid. They’d done all sorts of comparisons on each others’ dicks, hard and flaccid. Soap-dropping. Smacking each other with washcloths. And they’d fooled around—sure, they’d all fooled around. It was if the shower was just another barrier to the real world. Like the inverse of Superman’s phone booth. Painted monsters coming in, regular guys coming out, with no one aware of the process in-between.

Peter had been surprised when the band showers resumed. Thought Paul would demure out of ego, not wanting the other two to see him stripped bare sixteen years on. But he’d been all for it. They hadn’t screwed around, just teased each other about the gut that those workout regimens hadn’t gotten rid of, but that was all right. It was fun. Reassuring. It felt good to know there was still a piece of the old times that really was just for them, a piece that had nothing to do with summoning up someone else’s nostalgia. It felt really good.

They’d usually use the showers by the dressing room, rather than the hotel. Ace would step in first, tinkering with the temperature, and then Peter, with Paul following behind. Twenty minutes easy of soaping up, shaving, and shooting the shit. Which reminded Peter—

“You bring a pack of razors?”

“Said they’re in the shower.” Ace crooked another small grin. “They got everything ready for us right here whether we used ’em or not. Even the cold cream. Rider’s a mile long.”

“I can’t remember the last time I had a rider worth anything.”

“I can.” The velcro made an almost itchy sound as Ace, as blase about nudity as ever, peeled away the vest of his costume, tossing it on a chair for wardrobe to gather up later before starting on his boots, socks, and the leotard beneath. Wardrobe. They actually had wardrobe. A month in and it was still unbelievable. Peter inhaled sharply, then tugged off his shoes and socks, his bullet-belt of a vest. Stepped out of the leotard. The relief was almost instant, the cool air a balm on his sticky skin as they padded barefoot to the shower. “Last time I was with you.”

\--

They really did have the cold cream there in a huge, personalized caddy in each shower stall. Had regular makeup removal wipes, too, and a fat stack of white towels of various sizes. Six different shampoos. Body wash. Acne cleanser. Bar soap. Loofahs. Razors. Condoms. Lube. God, and this wasn’t even the hotel. They didn’t even know whether KISS would even  _ use _ the showers on-premises. He would’ve expected all this excess sixteen years ago. Now, it never failed to impress him. Never failed at all.

He picked up a washcloth and the cold cream out of habit and preference, unscrewing the jar and taking it with him back to the sink. One illusion he could take care of pretty quickly. He could hear Ace turning on the shower, and he waited, half-expecting Ace to call him in, but he didn’t. Instead, Ace headed over to the sink just as Peter dipped his fingers into the thick cream.

“Hold on, man.”

“What for?”

“Lemme give you a hand.” Ace scooped up some of the cream and started to spread it across Peter’s face. Messy dollops on his forehead, cheeks, and chin, before Ace rubbed it in properly with his fingers, the cream smearing away the paint, gradually exposing his skin. Ace smiled a little bit as he traced the tips of his fingers against Peter’s cheeks, turning the whiskers into smudged, blotchy ovals, and then nothing at all.

“Paint doesn’t hide as much as I thought it did,” Peter said dryly, after a glance in the mirror. Ace was still working on getting rid of the makeup, casually, slowly.

“You still look pretty good under there, y’know.”

“I’m fifty.”

“We can round down.” Ace took the washcloth, wet it, and wiped away the excess on his cheeks. “Close your eyes for me.”

Peter did. A second and Ace’s cream-coated fingers were carefully rubbing at the paint on his eyelids, spreading it out and up, towards his eyebrows and forehead.

“I never thought I’d be back to doing this at fifty. It’s… it’s far out, isn’t it? I still can’t believe it.” If the outdated turn of phrase bothered Ace any, he didn’t say anything, and Peter could feel the cloth against his eyelids next, just as gentle. “I can’t talk about it with Gene and Paul. They don’t get it.”

“They get it a lot better than you think.”

“Nah, nah. They…” Peter trailed, trying to come up with the right words as Ace kept wiping away his makeup. He wasn’t even mad at the other two for not getting it. He just wanted to explain. “They’ve been in that world so long. They dunno what it’s like to be down to nothing.”

“They’ve got a good idea. Maybe it was worse for them.”

“Worse? Are you serious? Come off it, Ace, they’re neck-deep in Hollywood bullshit and yes-men, they never—”

“This wasn’t just our last chance, Petey. It was theirs, too.” Ace didn’t elaborate any further. Peter opened his eyes, and saw Ace rinsing off the washcloth in the tap. The remnants of cream mixed with black greasepaint left a gray streak in the sink. 

“I’ll get your makeup for you, Ace.”

“S’okay, I’ll get it.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t want you holding your arms up anymore than you gotta.”

A slight warmth started up somewhere in Peter’s stomach as he shook his head.

“It’s not so bad. Nothing like it used to be. C’mon, let me.”

Ace bit his lip, then nodded.

“Okay. But in the shower, yeah? There’s something else I wanna get up to.”

\--

He tried to be careful, taking Ace’s makeup off. Ace was still mixing up some kind of powder for the silver starbursts, one that bothered his eyes. The cold cream almost melted between his fingers from the steam of the shower before he could even get it on Ace’s face, sliding off easily. He didn’t look so bad under the greasepaint. Not so bad at all, but there was a tiredness along with that old eerie awareness now. It was too early in the tour for Ace to be tired. Too early for Ace to be worried.

Peter kissed him as soon as the last remnants of makeup were washed away, on down to the lipstick. Ace returned the kiss almost immediately, looping an arm around him, pulling him close. They lingered like that awhile, under the spray of the shower, quiet and warm and wet. Then Ace, less lethargic and lackadaisical than usual, mouthed along his throat while his hand reached for Peter’s dick.

“Takes longer than it used to,” Peter warned, as if it’d really been that long since they’d last messed around. Maybe it’d been years since the last shower ritual had ended in handjobs and blowjobs, but it hadn’t been more than three days since the last time Ace’s body had ended up against his. Ace just winked.

“I got the time if you got the money, Cat.”

His hand was familiar. It felt the same as ever wrapped around his cock, pumping absently. Only the backdrop was different. Peter grunted, let Ace slowly ease him backwards until he felt the cool wall tile against his skin. His breath hitched as Ace worked him up to full attention. No hurry. Never any hurry. Not even in those shitty motels from ’74, the ones that ran out of hot water less than five minutes in. He and Paul would hop out, cursing and shivering, but Ace would just cackle once it turned cold. He acted like they always had all the time in the world to come.

The onslaught of water wasn’t direct now, just stray droplets amid the steam. Ace’s grip slacked off almost as abruptly as it had begun, as he sunk down to his knees in front of him, hands tracing his thighs.

He’d watched Ace take him in hundreds of times before. More times than he’d watched Ace’s knees buckle to the floor during the show. Down-down-down. It didn’t mean anything there. It meant something here, here in this in-between space, where all the magic of spandex and greasepaint faded and left them as they were, flawed and ordinary. It always would.

Peter’s hands found Ace’s soaked hair, pushing the wet strands back from his face. He closed his eyes again, and smiled.


End file.
